


Hand in Unlovable Hand

by jimisfabby



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Death, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships, i guess, like hella unhealthy, mormor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 11:55:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1119534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jimisfabby/pseuds/jimisfabby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“I’m going to die in three months,” he says one day, over breakfast.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>A short piece examining the lives of Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran, and their unconventional opinions on the inevitability of death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hand in Unlovable Hand

_I hope I cut myself shaving tomorrow_  
 _I hope it bleeds all day long_  
 _Our friends say it's darkest before the sun rises_  
 _We're pretty sure they're all wrong_

_I hope it stays dark forever_  
 _I hope the worst isn't over_  
 _And I hope you blink before I do_  
 _And I hope I never get sober_  


**No Children - The Mountain Goats**

*

“I’m going to die in three months,” he says one day, over breakfast.  
  
You just nod, not looking up from the newspaper. This is one of his favourite games – ‘What if I were mortal?’ You’ve heard this one before, and you’re a little surprised by that; he usually gets so bored when people repeat themselves.  
  
But he gets pissy if you don’t play along, so you do.  
  
“What of?”  
  
He sits for a minute, like he’s thinking of the most ‘fun’ answer possible – and his definition of fun is ‘anything that will piss you off.’  
  
“Cancer,” he decides at last, a matter-of-fact look on his face, “Specifically a malignant brain tumour, stage three and a half.”  
  
“I’d love to see you bald.”  
  
“You won’t.” His tone makes you look up, and you hit yourself internally because that means he’s got one over on you. But there’s something in his eyes that doesn’t quite fit with the smugness of his victorious smirk, and it worries you that you can’t stop reminding yourself that he’s played ‘cancer’ before.

*

The first time you meet, your nose is bloody from a fist-fight you started and your breathing is heavy and feral like that of a wounded animal. You’re standing over the twitching body on the floor, your brain working over-time on how you’re going to get out of this again.  
  
And he appears, grinning, praising, leaning on exposed nerves and peeling apart your skin to worm his way into your brain.  
  
By the time you realise how dangerous he is, he’s embedded himself into your flesh like a rogue piece of shrapnel. The only way you’ll dig him out will be with a knife, and you’re really in no position to do that.  
  
Besides, the person you used to be looks so much better hanging around his neck.

*

On the way home from the clinic, you make a swift turn into the nearest alley, and smash your fist into the wall. He stands a few paces behind, hands in his pockets, watching you with an almost scientific curiosity.  
  
You try and retain your breath, get calm like you always do when he pulls shit like this, like you did when everything went balls-up in Afghanistan and there were bits of your lieutenant’s brain matter in your face.  
  
IEDs never talked back, though.  
  
“Cheer up, love. It’s only a tumour.”  
  
He doesn’t have time even to draw breath before you’ve swung round and grabbed him by his shirt, slamming him back against the wall. And you see the edges of his lips _just_ start to quirk upwards, and you want to punch that smile, that goddamn smirk off his face, anything to make him understand that _he’s going to die, goddammit._  
  
But maybe he saw the look on your face, because when you look at him properly, he’s not smiling. His face is entirely impassive, except for the look in his eyes, which is troublingly familiar, if only a little more hollow.  
  
You let him go, turning and walking away, not looking back. Your fist aches.

*

It’s been another day when he’s been on edge for no discernible reason, stalking about the flat like a hyperactive cat after a canary. You haven’t disturbed him – the last time you tried that he left scratches all down your arms.  
  
You’ve been fairly lenient with him for a while - he is dying after all; you’ve got it in writing - but it’s coming up to half-fucking-midnight, and you’re exhausted from coping all day.  
  
“Come to bed.”  
  
He doesn’t move from the window, still watching the city like he owns it. His silence chokes you, leaves you squirming, and you suddenly wonder if the amount of control he has over your breathing is dangerous. You try again.  
  
“I thought people dying of cancer were supposed to start living life to the full-”  
  
“I don’t plan on dying of cancer,” he snaps back before you’ve finished, like he’s frustrated that he’s had to spell it out for you. He massages a temple with his fingers, kneading his perpetual headache.  
  
You pause. He never tells you up front if these games are just farces. Just stops one day at random, and glares at you if you bring it up again. He’s never looked so irritated by it, like it’s a painful memory itching and eroding away the walls of his brain.  
  
“So you’ve put off dying altogether?”  
  
“I didn’t say that.”  
  
And at last, he looks up at you, and you feel like you’ve been slapped because he looks so _tired._ You’re silent as you try to process what that means he’s going to do, what you’re going to do, what he’s going to _make_ you do.  
  
“Just come to bed.” You’re surprised by your own voice as you break the silence, too shocked to deny any apathetic desperation in your words.  
  
He’s watching you, his hand clutching your dog-tags.  
  
And, mercifully, terrifyingly, he does.

**Author's Note:**

> So this was a creative writing piece I had to write for college. I mean, if you've gotta hand in English coursework it may as well be secret MorMor fanfiction, right?  
> As you'll gather by reading, I've been inspired by things from two of my most favourite MorMor works:  
> -These Violent Delights, by pasiphile  
> and  
> -Prodigal, by doctorxxxmaximus
> 
> Go and read both of those fics if you haven't already because they're so much better than mine and absolutely wonderful and they will consume your soul with feelings and excellent writing of characters.
> 
> (I apologise because I would hyperlink things to places but I have the internet skills of, to borrow Andrew Scott's immortal words and use them slightly out of context, a "87 yr old drunk penguin on a running machine.")
> 
> Thank you for reading this! Comments and kudos will be pampered and adored.


End file.
